WHEN the Last Trumpet had cleared men off the earth like crumbs off a cloth, an unbelievable sweetness and freedom settled over the world. Presently all that man had spoiled was healed, and earth was a garden and God took his pleasure walking in it.
There’s a gold apple tree grows in the garden, and if God is so minded of all other trees he plucks the fruit, but at this he holds his hand and muses. The green serpent fawns about his feet. “If thou art God indeed,” he whispers, “eat.” But God bends and strokes the glittering coils.
“Do thou eat, belovéd,” says he, “and be even as I am, having knowledge of good and evil—and of thyself.” “Get thou behind me, God,” cries the serpent, and is fled through the dust of the garden like a green flame. And when the sweet laughter of God is over, all is quiet in the garden.